Frank Seaver is one of the last of the old time gunfighters, a

man determined to put his past behind him and start all over again.
But life rarely offers second chances and after a fatal shooting
in Missouri, Seaver finds himself on the run once again, pursued
across a western frontier that grows more "civilized" every day. Once
he reaches Montana, however, he becomes involved with the hunt for
a savage cougar terrorizing the Yellowstone region. Seaver's interest
in the expedition may have something to do with the attraction he
feels for the lovely, long-suffering wife of the party's leader, world
famous big game hunter, Philip Waring.
As the group makes its way through the stunning, mountainous
landscape, personal conflicts and jealousies create dangerous divisions
and rivalries, even as they prepare for a final, climactic confrontation
with their deadly quarry...
 Also by Cliff Burns:

(Novels)
So Dark the Night
Of the Night

(Novellas)
Righteous Blood

(Short Stories)
The Reality Machine
Sex & Other Acts of the Imagination
The Last Hunt
A Novel of the old west
Cliff Burns
Copyright © 2012 by Cliff Burns

All rights reserved. Any reproduction, sale or commercial use

of this book without authorization is strictly prohibited.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and

incidents are inventions of the author. Any resemblance
to actual events or people, alive or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Cover artwork: "The Warning Shadow" by William

Robinson Leigh (Courtesy the Rockwell Museum of Western Art;
Corning, New York)

Cover design: Chris Kent

Interior design by Scribe Freelance | www.scribefreelance.com

Printed by: Lightning Source

Published by Black Dog Press (blackdogpress@yahoo.ca)

Author's website: http://cliffjburns.wordpress.com

ISBN: 978-0-9694853-5-3
for Ken Harman & "the cowboy way"
"The broadest truth about these strange, violent figures is
that even well before the turn of the century they had
been isolated as anarchic men of action in a nation slowly
but steadily moving toward regimentation in lawful and
orderly communities."

James D. Horan, The Gunfighters: The Authentic Wild West

(Crown Publishers; 1976)

"He did not need to tell anyone he was a bad one, for hell
was written all over his face."

Andrew Garcia, Tough Trip Through Paradise (1878-79)

(Edited by Bennett H. Stein; University of Idaho Press;
1967)
Prologue
(Summer, 1884)

Long before actually setting eyes on Montana,

Frank Seaver dreamed about it.
Bundled up in his bedroll somewhere in eastern
Nebraska or shivering next to the fire in the foothills of
the Rockies, an oilcloth spread beneath him to keep the
damp out. Dozing off under a canopy of flickering stars
and suddenly finding himself treated to panoramic views
of snow-capped mountains, impenetrable forests and
great expanses of sky arching toward far off horizons...
He blamed old Titus. The two of them crossed paths
a few days after the trouble in St. Joe. Seaver had just
started supper when someone "Hallo'd" his camp. He was
on edge, expecting a posse, his response appropriately
wary. But the elderly prospector soon put him at ease.
Clearly he wasn't after anything except a little company
and on close examination turned out to be as harmless
(and chatty) as a jay.
Titus O'Rourke. "Of the County Antrim O'Rourkes
and proud of it!" Short, bent with age and infirmity, blind
in one eye, topped by a mane of white hair. A real
character. Vigorously pumping Seaver's hand, his good
eye fixed on the bubbling frying pan, assaying the fare.
Seaver took pity on him, invited him to stay awhile,
pouring his visitor a strong cup of Arbuckle's finest just to
prove he was sincere.
O'Rourke was effusive in his thanks and spent the
next two hours regaling him with tales of his journeys and
adventures. If his meandering account was even halfway
accurate, he'd racked up more travel miles than Marco
Polo. He'd trekked through the entire west, from the gold
fields of California to the remotest windblown butte in the
Dakota Territory. Often alone and without a map, only
the sun and stars to guide him. Quick wits and Irish luck
had saved him more times than he could count. He'd
wintered with the Shoshone, gone on war parties with the
Crow and was blood brother to Crazy Horse.
Like most Irishmen, he told a good story. He
became even more loquacious after digging out a bottle of
"tarantula juice" and commenced taking long pulls on it
at regular intervals.
"I tell you, son," O'Rourke belched dyspeptically,
barely missing a beat, "this world is plumb full of marvels.
I seen things you wouldn't hardly credit. Why, once up in
Montana--"
 Seaver spoke quietly from the other side of the fire.
"Montana? I was ponderin' headin' that way myself."
Well, wouldn't you know it, it turned out that
Montana was O'Rourke's favorite spot in the known
world. He went on and on, waxing eloquent about the
tall, reaching mountains and clear-running streams, wide
open spaces and wildlife aplenty. Truly a Garden of
Eden. "There are places and beasts in them parts no
white man has set eyes on. You may think I'm repayin'
your good company with nothin' but tall tales but believe
me, God still has plenty o' mysteries to show us 'fore He's
done."
It all sounded ideal to Seaver. He needed to lose
himself, find somewhere far off where he could start fresh,
with a clean slate. He plied O'Rourke with questions and
the two of them ended up conversing well into the night.
The next morning, Titus, feeling the effects of the
rotgut whiskey, wasn't nearly as forthcoming. They
shared a cup of coffee together before parting company,
Titus heading east, Seaver steering northwest, intending
to follow the Platte as far as it took him. When crossing
the plains, numberless miles of desolate prairie, it wasn't
prudent to ignore a known water source, even one
rumored to be too thick to drink and too thin to plow.
 As they took leave of each other, Titus gave him a
bleary once over. "Don't believe I caught your name,
stranger."
"Thornton. Frank Thornton." The lie came easily,
Thornton was his mother's maiden name.
He would be "Frank Thornton" from now on and
that night he made it official, shaving off the thick,
drooping moustache he'd cultivated since his early
twenties. A trademark and distinguishing feature that was
bound to figure prominently on circulars so off it went.
His bare lip felt unnatural, naked. He was glad no one
was around to see it.
It was time to take stock. He had a good mount
and packhorse, both of which he could exchange or
replace as the need arose. He was well provisioned for a
long journey, with no attachments holding him back. A
man of independent means. Nothing to keep him from
going where he pleased and doing what he liked.
Nothing except he was wanted by the law, a violent, dangerous
desperado who had committed a capital crime.
Shaving off his moustache wasn't going to be
enough. The transformation had to be complete. He
shucked his fancy threads, the frock coat and tailored
breeches, changed into saddleworn Levis, a long-sleeved
cotton shirt, leather vest. Dispensed with the felt slouch
hat, replacing it with a sun-bleached Stetson.
Parting with his faithful Colt .45 was hard. He felt
incomplete without it. But it was a relic of another time,
another man. He replaced it with a .44 Remington, a gun
acquired during his days as a lawman, dependable, with a
reassuring heft.
It was important to present a low profile. Leave a
cold trail for potential pursuers. He resolved to stay away
from towns and settlements, avoid people, but that wasn't
easy, even for a naturally solitary man. Ten days in the
saddle with no company but crickets and prairie dogs
wore on a person.
In his younger days, employed as a line rider, he
could go a month, sometimes longer, never seeing
another human face. Now he was older and it was
different. Being alone all the time was hard, hard on the
spirit. It got so you wondered if anyone even knew or
cared you were alive. A bad feeling and one not easily
shaken off.

Western Nebraska, two weeks later:

Seaver used the excuse that he was low on salt to
stop at the next homestead he encountered. Which
turned out to be a beaten down shack a few hundred
yards from the banks of the North Platte. There was
nothin' but nothin' in every direction, as his daddy used to
say. No neighbors, no other living creatures in sight
except birds on the wing.
Her name was Jenny Udall and she was, he quickly
determined, a grass widow. Her husband Warren either
dead or just plain gone, she wasn't sure which.
"Ain't seen him since spring. Lit out from here,
never said where he was goin' or if he was comin' back."
She seemed resigned to her situation, the hard hand she'd
been dealt. She said she was twenty-five but looked ten
years older. No crops had been planted and her larder
was nearly empty. There were grim days ahead.
He ended up scouring the countryside for firewood,
filling in the chinks in her walls with straw and mud,
patching her leaky roof. The hunting was poor but he did
his best. It turned out she was a good cook and her
company agreeable but after three days of it he was
uneasy. Frequently glancing over his shoulder, scanning
the eastern skyline.
One night, in the pale, smoky light cast by an
improvised Betty lamp, he saw the way she was looking at
him, the intensity of her gaze. It unsettled him, the need he
detected there.
 He left at daybreak. Exchanged but a perfunctory
word or two with her before swinging up onto his saddle
and hightailing it out of there. Knowing he would
remember the look on her face for as long as he lived.
Someone else was bound to come along. Surely.
A bigger, better man who could endure what the
place would demand of him. The loneliness, most of all.
No friends, no diversions, nearest neighbor ten miles
away. Eagerly anticipating the twice-yearly trips to town
for provisions, a chance to converse with other human
beings, catch up on the latest news. Breaking his back
plowing a hundred and sixty stony acres, hand-seeding it
with Turkey Red Wheat...and then watching helplessly as
every stalk of it was devoured by drought, insects or an
early frost.
No wonder Udall skedaddled. If his wife had any
sense, she'd do the same.
Thereafter he kept to himself, made do with less salt.
Shaking the Nebraska dust from his clothes and just
keeping on keeping on. He knew he was in the Wyoming
Territory because the elevation was rising, the nights
colder. Enjoying a good fire, not hiding his presence but
not advertising it either. He liked to leave enough time so
he had an hour of light to read by. Sometimes, if the book
was especially good, he burned a candle. He was partial
to Dickens and Shakespeare. He couldn't recall once
shedding a tear for any of the things he'd done, but
sometimes, as he read a particularly beautiful passage, he
was moved, overcome by emotions he never knew he
possessed.
He slept with a Winchester rifle beside him and the
Remington stashed under his roll. He was a light sleeper
and the hard ground and primitive conditions didn't help
any. Part of him nostalgic for a warm feather bed and
nickel beer. Definitely feeling the chill more than he used
to; it seeped deep into his bones, leaving a residual ache
that set his teeth on edge.
He banked up the fire, made sure there was wood
for morning. Then he smiled, thinking about Titus,
wondering where the old boy might be resting his head at
that moment. Suddenly experiencing a profound sense of
futility and despair, the universe immense and indifferent
above him, his existence pathetic and inconsequential in
comparison. Never had he felt more isolated and alone.
But he wasn't really alone, was he? Somewhere out
there, who knew how far away, his pursuers had also
bedded down for the night and were regarding the same
sky he was. Men with vengeful hearts, selected for their
proficiency with weapons and propensity for violence.
Deputized in haste, perhaps as much a lynch party as a
posse.
He slipped his book, Voltaire's Candide, into a leather
pouch he'd purchased from an old woman in
Nacogdoches. A weathered, dignified face, those dark,
Mexican eyes. The satchel hand-made, skillfully wrought.
It had preserved many a volume from wind, rain and
desert heat. The pouch went into the same saddlebag as
the Colt. Each possessing its own intrinsic value.
He checked the rifle, then settled down to sleep. It
was a still night and for once the bugs were downright
tolerable.
Montana, meanwhile, was getting closer every day.
He could tell because his dreams were becoming more
and more vivid. Overflowing with remarkable detail. He
saw wildlife, bears and deer and elk. Existing in an
unspoiled environment, no signs of men or civilization, as
pristine as it was on the First Day.
But even in his dreams, he knew it wouldn't last...
 I

Cheyenne was tempting. He had no history there

and debated making an exploratory visit. Seaver got close
enough to see some of its outlying buildings and hear the
distant bawling of cattle milling about in the city's
extensive stockyards. Cheyenne, after all, owed its
existence to the railroad and the famous Goodnight-
Loving Trail, which ferried countless head up from Texas
for shipping to points east and west.
It was a bustling, prosperous city, tree-lined streets,
fancy hotels and more lawyers than you could shoot. A
thoroughly civilized place, thousands of people living in
close quarters, bumping elbows and still remaining civil,
instead of slapping for their guns at the slightest affront.
He had shaved off his mustache, allowed his
sideburns to grow. Different clothes and a different man.
He could almost pass for normal.
At some point the Thornton persona he'd adopted
would have to be introduced to the rest of the world. But
not in Cheyenne. Too many people and lawmen aplenty.
The telegraph always racing ahead, tapping out its bad
news. Followed by handbills, crudely drawn and
promising lavish rewards: dead or alive.
 My name is Frank Thornton. Thornton's the name. How d'you
do, ma'am? Frank Thornton. Frank Thornton, at your service.
He continued north, the altitude thinning the air.
Some mornings he woke with frost on his bedding, his
breath visible in the early light.
His mount developed a wheeze and neither horse
inspired much confidence for the long haul. Luckily, he
was passing by Fort Fetterman and while the army might
have pulled up stakes, a settlement, of sorts, remained.
He could buy provisions, hopefully replace the horses,
walk around, stretch some of the ache out of his knees.
The place wasn't much to look at, two years
abandoned and already falling into disrepair. Some of the
outbuildings stripped or carted off. The wooden walls still
stood, a score or so tents and tepees erected nearby.
There was a heavy gate that could be swung closed at
night but mostly they didn't bother. Conditions were
primitive and the patrons on the rough side. He knew
they were eyeballing him, sizing him up. He stepped aside
for no one, staring right back at them.
There were no takers. Something in his face forbade
disagreement and no man among them, white or red,
seemed inclined to give him quarrel or complaint.
He spotted some sporting women but put such
notions out of his mind. Or tried to. It had been awhile.
He frequented all three saloons, two of which were
housed in pavilion tents dating back to the Civil War.
Gathered whatever gossip and information he could
(usually more of the former than the latter).
At one establishment, cleverly dubbed "Fetterman's
Revenge", he insinuated himself into a group observing a
friendly poker game. Most of the players were familiar
with each other and kept up a lively banter, regularly
infused with personal invective and cuss words. One of
them was the local dentist, Doc Throckmorton, and he
provided the most interesting tidbits, information literally
pried from some of his recent patients.
"Have ye heard the latest about that big cat? Dang
you, Herbert," he complained to the corpulent dealer,
"don't them fat fingers of yours ever grace a fellow with
the card he requires?" He stuck a pipe between his lips,
bit down on the stem. "Like I says, have y'all heard about
that killer cat they been talkin' about?"
"Do tell," the man on his left spoke up
companionably. He was holding three jacks and sitting
pretty.
"Yeah," Burt, the dentist's bête noir across the table
quipped, "let's hear some more o' your lies. How big is
your cat this time round? Last I heard it could swallow up
three men at once and come back for seconds."
 Throckmorton endured the joshing with good
humor. "Well, think what ye like but this fella told me it's
already kilt five men and that's jes' the ones they know
of." He mopped his sweaty brow with a dirty
handkerchief. "Sounds to me like it has acquired an
appetite for human flesh."
"I hear the thing's unnatural," a cowboy next to
Seaver blurted out. He was missing the top half of one
ear and dustier than the Sahara Desert. "Something
spawned down below." Snickers greeted the remark. This
wasn't a crowd of good, God-fearing Baptists.
"That's foolish speculation," Doc Throckmorton
demurred. "I think it far more likely that this creature is
some kind of remnant from our prehistoric past. A freak
of nature and undoubtedly one of a kind. A rare
animal...and it'll take a rare man to bring it down."
Seaver was intrigued. "Where'd you say this cat is
supposed to be at?"
Doc took out his pipe, scratched his nose with it.
"Over yonder in the Yellowstone. They made it a park a
few years back. And I hear it's the most wondrous spot on
God's green world..."
Later, Seaver paid a visit to the livery stable to see
what was available. It consisted of a dilapidated barn and
circular corral, all of it held together by spit and a prayer.
The pickings were slim--scrubs, mostly, but then he
caught sight of a fine-looking animal hobbled and close-
tied to a snubbing post at the far end of the corral. The
handsome sorrel was clearly the best of the lot, but when
he inquired about its peculiar circumstances, Ed Weight,
the proprietor, almost swallowed an entire plug of
tobacco.
"Forget it. That critter is horsemeat, soon as I get
'round to it." He waved a bandaged hand at Seaver.
"Lookit! Took a chunk out o' me the size of an egg. I'm
gonna shoot that no-good, goddamn nag...but first I'm
gonna let it suffer awhile." Nodding in satisfaction. "Ain't
had no food or water since yesterday and I got it rigged so
it can't even twitch a muscle. Give it a lick or two with this
when it suits me too." Brandishing a quirt of plaited
leather. A vicious, stupid man. Filthy bib overalls and the
yellowest eyes Seaver had ever seen. Wolf eyes.
"Layin' it on a bit thick, ain't you?"
"Mister, you don't know the half of it." He jerked a
thumb toward the corral. "Thing's loco. Kicked the hell
out of its stall, jes' about kills any horse that goes near it.
Every so often you come across one that's jes' plain bad.
Can't be cured, can't be helped. Best to shoot 'em, skin
'em and leave the rest to the buzzards."
"I'll give you thirty silver dollars for him."
 "Huh?" Weight stared at him. "Ain't you heard
anything I--"
"Thirty dollars and I ride him out of here." Weight
gaped at him as he counted out the money.
"Fair warnin', mister." Weight pocketed the
currency with undisguised glee. "That critter been gelded
but it sure as hell ain't been gentled."
"I understand." Turning to gaze at his latest
acquisition. "My daddy always told me to avoid yellow-
haired women and horses with more spirit than sense."
Taking a deep breath. "He was right about the women.
Guess I'm about to find out what kind of judge of horse
flesh he was."
The big gelding was tall, thin-necked. Wide-bodied,
he liked that, fifteen, maybe sixteen hands. A striking
russet color, black mane and tail. Beautiful.
It appeared to take no notice as he approached with
his saddle and gear. He loosened the tether so it could
raise its head, stand comfortably. This close, he could
fully appreciate what a superb animal it was: well-
proportioned, every ripple of muscle revealing its
breeding and quality.
He maintained eye contact, always staying where it
could see him. Talking, keeping his voice low and
monotonous. Using the Spanish phrases Hector had
taught him almost two decades ago.
"Ven, mi belleza..."
Hector believed most of the horses in the New
World originated from Spanish stock, animals brought
over by Cortez and his bunch. Somehow or other, horses
still retained some understanding or memory of their old
conquistador masters. Speak to them in the mother tongue, Hector
instructed him, talk to them until part of them remembers...and
obeys.
Hector was a wise old hand who knew a thing or
two about horses. Didn't hoard his knowledge like some
of the others did and Seaver spent many long hours
learning the cowboy way at the feet of a master.
Now he was putting some of that wisdom to good
use, cooing to the sorrel, using phrases he didn't entirely
understand but which Hector assured him would tame
the orneriest broncos and bring them to heel.
"Calma...calma...mantenga la calma, mi hermosa..."
He kept talking, holding the animal's gaze. Stroking
its neck, moving in closer, letting it smell him. He saw
spirit and intelligence in its brown eyes, wariness too. "I
been so low, I was down to boots and saddle. Tough
times. But I'd never stoop so low that I'd raise a hand
against the likes of you. I admire your proud heart."
Vowing: "I'll be the last one that ever rides you. No other
man will claim that right."
The horse shied away some as he swung first a
blanket, then the forty-pound saddle onto its back, but the
restraints kept it from bolting. He noticed his undertaking
had drawn some bystanders: Weight and his crew, people
with nothing better to do, even a few Indians drifting over
and perching on the fence rails like curious cats.
Once he'd cinched the saddle, he picked up the
bridle and approached his new mount. Softly: "Easy, boy.
There ain't gonna be any trouble between us. This is a
good rig, bought in St. Louis, Missouri. Along with that
saddle it's the only decent thing I ever got out of that
godforsaken state." The horse appeared to be listening.
He slid the halter over its head. "Try out that bit. You see
what I mean? That's quality workmanship. Jes' like you."
He knelt and with two quick strokes of his knife severed
the lines holding the horse's legs. The onlookers leaned
forward in anticipation. "Those people are fools," he
murmured, "and we're gonna show 'em up for what they
are. We'll waltz out of here just as neat as you please, you
and me. We'll show 'em, won't we?" Then, in one swift
movement, he was in the saddle, reins gripped in his
hand. Not doing anything, just sitting there, letting it get
used to his weight.
 The bystanders waited, jaws unhinged, expecting
the big red bronc to go berserk. But nothing happened.
Not at first.
He tugged the reins and the two of them started
away. Animal and rider made one slow circuit of the
corral, but the next time around the sorrel noticed
another horse, a buckskin mare, on the other side of the
fence and reacted with unexpected ferocity. All at once
Seaver found himself thrown backward as his steed flung
itself at the smaller horse, rearing and striking out with its
front hooves.
Seaver could hear the spectators whooping and
hollering but he needed no encouragement, hanging on
for dear life. In its excitement, the sorrel collided with the
intervening rails, nearly tumbling sideways. Seaver
yanked on the reins, hearing the bit click sharply between
its teeth. "Settle down, damnit." His nerves and
horsemanship served him well because once the animal
righted itself, its behavior was much improved. It
understood simple commands. Good. Not stupid, just
mean and contrary. He could live with that.
Seaver swapped his old pack horse for a creature
that looked part mule. It was plug ugly and sway-backed
but it could bear a load and was unlikely to wander off.
Perfect for his requirements.
 As promised, he rode his new horse off the premises,
passing the gawkers on the way out. Suddenly taken
aback when he recognized one of their number.
Shorty McGee.
During the course of his travels, Seaver had met
many an individual who had been favored with that
moniker, but Delbert McGee lived up to it, in spades.
If he was four and a half feet high, someone once
joked, it was because Shorty was waving his hands in the
air. But such wisecracks were rarely uttered in the little
man's presence. He didn't normally encourage such
liberties, especially in the company of strangers and
greenhorns. Not that he minded a good joke, ol' Shorty,
he just didn't like you harping on it.
He and Seaver had crossed paths on at least three
occasions and as far as he knew, the little man had no
quarrel with him. Maybe with the moustache gone--
But Shorty looked and looked again. Smiled, sort
of. They exchanged stiff nods and that was it.
Seaver rode on and anyone watching would have
noticed nothing immediately amiss except, perhaps, he
might have been sitting slightly straighter in the saddle,
his shoulders squared, head up.
The change was subtle, barely discernible.
Unless you had an eye for fine detail.
 Or possessed the well-honed instincts of a shootist.

"'lo, Shorty."
Seaver was waiting near a pile of building materials
someone had left stacked on the outskirts of the
settlement. The future home of some poor, homesick
Swede or Mick. Or, maybe not. Folks were saying the
place's days were numbered, that with the fort
abandoned, the soldiers gone, there was no point staying.
Five years, this could be just another ghost town. Tapped
out. Wrung dry. The mountains loomed close by; winters
here could be hard. The stack of boards looked
insubstantial, inadequate to the task.
Shorty was astride a small, dun horse and appeared
to be in good spirits, raising a hand in greeting. Seaver
recollected that he usually sported a custom-made pistol,
fitted for his small mitt. He was relieved the pistol was
nowhere in evidence. He'd taken a chance, stuck the
Remington in the saddlebag with the Colt. Not that he
was entirely trusting: there was a twitchy little .41 derringer
in his right coat pocket. For emergencies or just in case.
Their horses nosed each other. Seaver's horse--
christened, in Ed Weight's honor, the Goddamn Nag--
gave a warning snort, which the smaller critter ignored.
Like its owner, the diminutive pony was feisty, giving no
ground.
"Knew it was you. You was always good with horses.
A real natural. You ain't scairt a nothin', that's the most
important thing when it comes to critters. It makes them
scairt o' you." Shorty brought his pony alongside and
Seaver leaned over, shook his hand. "It was smart,
shaving the moustache off. Marked you like a brand."
Grinning up at him. "Heard a few things. Got a minute?"
He nodded and the two of them started north at an
easy walk. Shorty was traveling light, not even any
saddlebags. Which meant he'd be turning around and
heading back to Fetterman. Pity. He was good company
and a first rate man to have on your side in a tight spot.
Seeing those Indians skulking around the fort reminded
him that he was in undiscovered country, as the Bard
would say, and there was safety in numbers. "So what's
the news?"
"There's this story I hear," Shorty began.
"This ain't the one about the two Irishmen and the
farmer's daughter, is it?" Seaver warned and Shorty
smirked.
"Naw. This one's better. About a deputy sheriff in
St. Joseph, Missouri who got hisself kilt for slappin'
leather with...well, let's jes' say someone he shouldn't
have. You know that one?"
 "Mebbe," Seaver admitted.
"But there's more."
"Thought so."
"The so-called guilty party had already kilt
somebody, a known quantity, shall we say, name of
Randall Gower. Way I hear it, Gower recognized him
and thought he'd make his name by collecting a famous
scalp. Only it didn't work out that way. So Gower's dead,
our man is walkin' out, as peaceable as you please, and
then this deputy, name of Talbot--"
"Talbot," Seaver repeated, committing the name to
memory.
"--takes it upon hisself to play hero. Yanks his piece
and lets 'er rip. And that's all she wrote."
"He came close. I heard a click, fired right after he
did. Never noticed the badge. Just a flash and smoke."
"He didn't say nothin'?"
"Nothin'," Seaver insisted, "just pulled and popped
one off but it went wild. Nervous. Only a kid. Damn
him...."
"I suppose you know the boy comes from a good
family. Prominent people, I hear. Good friends with the
governor." Seaver said nothing. There was nothing to
say. "Had all that goin' for him. And now he's dead."
"Now he's dead." They looked at each other.
 "Missouri. I recollect you sayin' on more than one
occasion you'd never set foot in that perticular state
again."
"I know."
"I got a real clear memory of you tellin' us about all
the bad things that happened to you there."
Seaver shifted in his saddle, seeking a more
comfortable position. A different part of his backside to
bruise. "It's true. I heard about this high stakes poker
game and thought, hell, St. Joe is just across the border. I
can always hightail it back to Kansas. I shoulda known
better." Glaring down at his companion. "But I swear to
God, Shorty, it was an accident. The fool should've...well,
it's too late for anything but tears. And I ain't sheddin' any
over the likes of him."
"They sent Steubing after you," Shorty said. Casting
his eyes at the ground. "Thought you'd like to know."
"Steubing..."
"Payin' him good money to bring you back. On your
saddle or over it, they don't profess to care." They had
reined in their mounts, still facing north. It was getting
on, around four in the afternoon. The temperature
dropping; Shorty shivered. "Dang, it's cold. Should be
headin' back."
"Anything else?"
 Shorty grinned up at him. "Ain't that enough?" And
that did it. Their laughter carried for miles, all the way to
the mountains and back again.
"It's good to see you again, Shorts." Wiping at his
eyes.
"I'll always remember that stampede--"
"All I could see was your hat."
"The way their horns glowed, green like ghost
light."
"Somethin' in the air. Spooky. Never seen anything
like it."
They spent some companionable moments recalling
shared adventures, friends in common. Seaver liked
Shorty and considered him one of the bravest men he'd
ever met. The night of the stampede, in the midst of the
lightning, bawling cattle, shouts and tumult, Shorty was
the one who turned the herd. Naked as a jaybird, firing
his little pistol, recklessly steering his horse Zeke into the
path of certain death, while thunder shouted from
overhead, the heavens fit to burst.

Excerpt from The Last Hunt, a western novel by Cliff Burns.

Available from your favorite bookseller in March, 2012.
ISBN: 978-0-9694853-5-3